Narrative
#9

"The
Good and The Bad"

By: Ron Reil

Note:I recently had an unfortunate experience with the author of a
new book about Tristan Jones called "Wayward Sailor." My biggest
concern, his statement that my story below had the "ring of
fiction," will be rectified in any future printings, but there
is another point that I want to clarify also where Mr. Dalton is in
error. Below there is a statement
he quotes (italics below) on page 101-102, where Tristan,
after reading my log, left me a note saying that he would sue me if I
were ever to publish any of the material in my log about his
underhanded dealings. I said it was was due to his concern about his
readers. He references the fact that "The Incredible Voyage" wasn't
published until 1977, and it was 1973 at the time, so the concern about
his readers didn't exist yet. At the time that I was switching boats
with Tristan, his main focus was his writing.In
fact he quickly modified the front end of Dart, where the medical
cabinet used to be, to be his writing area, removing the cabinet doors
and installing horizontal cross bars to hold his writing supplies. He
also had his typewriter set up so he could use it in the front of the
boat while sitting on one of the bunks, with the typewriter on the
other. He was extremely concerned about his public image in
regards to his writings because he had already determined that his
writings were going to be his primary source of income in the future.
That was due to the successes he had already had in magazine
publishing. I have no way to prove this point, but it is an erroneous
conjecture by Mr. Dalton, based on my use of the word "books." A
better word for me to have used below would have been"writings," and
this dispute would not have arisen.

Background

On the 7th of January, 1973,
Fitz and I sailed Sea Dart into the anchorage in Bequia, W.I. We had
come
across the hundred mile crossing from Barbados, sailed around the north
end
of St. Vincent, and south along the lee side of the island. We spent
one
very uneasy night and day in Kingstown, the locals were very hostile to
Americans, and then we sailed south across the Bequia channel to Bequia
harbor.
This was a world apart from St. Vincent. The locals were very friendly,
and
it was quickly apparent that we would call this little island home for
a
couple of months while we explored the southern islands.

The anchorage was wonderful.
There was a beautiful, semi-secluded beach in the lower bay, Princess
Margaret
Beach, that offered protection as well as good skin diving. That was
important
since almost all our food came from the sea. I dove every afternoon to
get
our fish, lobster, or conch for dinner. Fitz prepared it with some of
our
ultra cheap rice which we had provisioned the boat with in Barbados. We
had
paid only $0.03/pound BWI for it. That was about 1 1/2 cent a pound US
currency!
It was crude but was wholesome. Once the trash was sifted out, the
stones,
etc., removed, it looked fine, even if it did smell like a fart when we
cooked
it. The smell soon earned it the name of "fart rice" aboard Dart.

The location had other merit
as well. There were several nice "bars" available. One very nice one
called
the "Frangipani" was a favorite, even if it was a little expensive for
yachtsmen
on a $0.60 a day budget. Also, the bay was full of yachts at that time
of
year waiting for fair winds to sail to the Galapagos Islands after they
traversed
the Panama Canal. They would spend a month in Bequia before heading on
to
Panama. That month was full of parties and fun. Each night a different
yacht
would have a party on deck and everyone in the bay was invited.
Sometimes
the bigger yachts even had a steel band on deck. In the afternoon the
yachtsman
would row around the bay knocking on hulls to announce the party. The
invitation
always included the request to bring any musical instrument you might
play.
It was a wonderful time for everyone.

Fitz and I made the best of
the island, exploring all parts of it on foot, barefoot at that. One
wonderful
place was a small bay called "Hope Bay" on the windward side of Bequia.
The
big surf breaking on the barrier reef offshore sent in waves that were
perfect
body surfing waves. We spent many hours enjoying the surf, and getting
pounded
into the sand when the ride didn't go right. We hiked over with Mary
and
George off "Sugar Creek", a beautiful double ender, and four other
folks
off of two Swedish yachts. It was interesting how the customs of Europe
differ
from ours. When it came time to change into swimming suits, the Swedish
men
and women just stripped down right there on the spot and changed, we
followed
their example, and that was that. I should add that the Swedish girls
were
very attractive.

There were several other interesting
yachts in the bay too. Marty and Charlie Pit were sailing the very fine
55
foot yacht "Santana", which had belonged to Humphrey Bogart. Santana
had
almost been taken by the same giant surf in Barbados that almost
claimed
Dart. I had a wonderful evening on the yacht "Tiki", a 105 foot
schooner
that really put on a big party one night. One afternoon Simon Bridger
off
of the yacht "Circe" came over to ask for my help to rescue his anchor.
It
was fouled in 40-50 foot deep water, and he was told I was the only
diver
in the bay that could probably help him. After several warm up dives I
free
dove and managed to free the badly tangled anchor. When I went aboard
Circe
afterward, I discovered that Circe belonged to Tom Chamberlain, who had
built
her and now lived in Newport, Oregon. I knew Tom, so it was a warm
reception
I received on the Circe.

Life in the bay was not without
its surprises and adventure. We had a storm that lasted over 24 hours,
starting
on the 18 of January, that had the entire bay taking full gale
precautions.
I set out a second anchor, my big danforth, and was very glad I did so
when
the winds increased to over 50 knots that night. Several big yachts
drug
anchor and ended up running their engines to try to hold against the
winds
while they desperately tried to get the hook to stick. There was action
everywhere in the bay, as yachts in line with the dragging boats
attempted
to move, or fend off, the oncoming craft. I was fortunate to be out of
the
way, and only suffered loss of sleep, while I kept checking my anchor
bearings
to detect any slippage on my anchor system. We did have one big
trimiran
slide by within a few feet of us, but that was early in the storm when
it
was still daylight. We had several such storms while anchored in Bequia.

All in all, Bequia was a wonderful
place to call home, for a time. There are many other stories to be told
about
this wonderful place, including the invitation I received to go whaling
with
the local whalers in the old "Nantucket sleigh ride" style whaling
boats.
I believe they were the only remaining whalers in the world still
whaling
in that tradition, handed down from their Yankee whaler forefathers who
had
jumped ship on the beautiful little island. Their heritage was apparent
in
the "old English" dialect that they spoke.

Two
Men of Note

Thor
Heyerdahl

I would like to relate to you
information about two men that I met in my sailing that you may be
familiar
with. Although this is a "Tristan Jones" page, I also want to include a
couple
of paragraphs about my personal childhood hero, Thor Heyerdahl. When I
was
only 12 years old I read the book "Kon Tiki" by Thor Heyerdahl. It was
responsible for me going to sea, and Thor had been my idol for many
years.
Several years before Tristan and I crossed wakes, I had been fortunate
to
be in Barbados when Thor sailed in on "Ra II". I learned of his
approach,
and sailed out 24 miles in Vega to meet the Ra, at sea, just as she was
taking
the line from the government tug "Culpepper". I sailed along side the
Ra
and exchanged conversation with Thor and his crew, as well as we could,
considering the language differences in his multi-national crew.

After meeting the Ra at sea,
I was able to go aboard the Ra a week later, after all the welcome
activities
had died down. There were over 200,000 people waiting to meet Thor when
he
arrived in Barbados! It was a wonderful experience to cross wakes with
my
childhood hero. I can't think of anyone who has had a greater impact on
my
life than Thor Heyerdahl.

Tristan
Jones

In early March of 1973 Tristan
Jones came into my life with a rush. My first glimpse of Tristan
occurred
one early morning when I was brought to Dart's deck by a big ruckus
ashore.
High up on the hill, in town, I could see Tristan running down the road
toward
the bay, as fast as he could go, with the local sail maker right behind
him
waving a big machete and screaming profanities at him. Apparently
Tristan
had pulled a fast one on the sail maker and was about to pay for it
with
his life.

Tristan was fleet of foot, however,
and reached the end of the town dock about three steps ahead of the
sail
maker's machete. Tristan launched off the dock gracefully clearing 20
feet
of water before entering the sea in a head long dive. He swam out to
"Banjo"
and climbed aboard in a fierce temper. He could be heard all over the
bay
cussing at his two young black crewmen. It has been said that Tristan
couldn't
swim, but if that's true, his actions are a testament to quick learning
in
a pressing situation. If Tristan couldn't swim, I think he must have
forgotten
that fact for a moment.

I got to see Tristan quite often
after that. Tristan loved the rum bottle, especially someone else's rum
bottle,
and would often come back to Banjo in a fierce roaring mood that would
get
the whole bay up on deck to watch. One such event occurred one
afternoon
when Tristan returned to the beach after some heavy socializing. He
yelled
to Banjo for his crew to come in to the beach and pick him up with
Banjo's
dingy, but received no response. He continued to bello from the shore
while
his thermostat moved steadily up into the danger zone. Finally he
couldn't
take it any longer, waded in, and swam out to Banjo, once again
forgetting
he couldn't swim. When he climbed aboard Banjo he was in an extreme
temper,
and in a rage, stormed below decks. A few moments later he showed up on
deck
again with one of the little black boys held high above his head and
threw
him into the sea. He immediately went below again and brought up the
second
one repeating the gesture.

When the boys climbed back aboard
Banjo, Tristan had not cooled enough yet, and he repeated the
treatment,
throwing each one back in the sea while yelling profanities at them.
The
entire bay watched while he went through this ritual. Finally he had
cooled
enough to go below and crash for the day. It was a demonstration I will
not
soon forget.

After some time passed, Tristan
became aware that I had put Dart up for sale. He hailed me from shore
one
afternoon, and I went in to get him in Dart's dingy. We spent the
afternoon
on Dart discussing Dart, and working on the gallon and a half jug of
rum
I kept on board. That night, Wednesday 13 March, Tristan and I reached
agreement
on the sale of Dart. That night the bottle of rum also became history.

If I had turned Dart over to
Tristan, and departed Bequia at that time, things would have been much
better
than how things actually worked out. I elected to keep Dart until the
1st
of April so that I could sail her one last time down into the Grenadine
Islands
for a visit. When I returned to complete the deal, and turn Dart over
to
Tristan, things started to deteriorate. As matters worked out, however,
I
never did make the trip down through the Grenadine Islands.

To understand my feelings about
what happened you need to know about another event that happened during
the
transition time when Tristan took Dart, and I moved aboard Banjo.
Shortly
after the sale, I was bitten on the lower right leg by a spider. It
turned
out to be very poisonous, and soon the wound was a horrible mass of
rotting
flesh. Nothing I did made any difference. It was getting to the
critical
point when I decided to take things into my own hands. I sat down in
Dart
and scraped and cut away the entire rotting mass as best I could. It
was
on the back of my right calf, so seeing and reaching it was a problem.
I
had no proper disinfectant, so I opened a bottle of cologne and poured
it
on the open wound. That almost sent me into orbit, and it did little
good,
as the wound was even worse the next day.

The
Operation

About this time a small boat
sailed in that I knew well. It was the boat of two friends, Hillary and
Neil,
who I had shared many pleasant evenings with. Neil was an English
physicist,
and Hillary was a mathematician. They were very highly educated people,
and
a joy to talk with.

Of course, when they sailed
in, I had to go over and join them the first evening they were in port.
I
was in a very poor mood because the wound on my leg was developing
blood
poisoning, and I felt that my future was going to be quite short at
that
point. There was little or no medical help to be had in Bequia. I hoped
that
Hillary could help me.

When I came aboard I failed
to mention Dart's sale, in my concern for my health. I sat with them
drinking
some of their home made beer while discussing the stinking mess that my
leg
had become. Hillary decided to have a close look at it, which I thought
was
very brave considering. She got out a magnifying glass and a sharp
knife
to explore the wound with. After some time poking and prodding, while
Neil
held a light for her, she announced that she could see seven distinct
"cores"
in the center of the wound that must relate to seven bites.

After an extended period of
discussion of the options, Hillary decided that the only option was for
her
to operate! She proposed cutting out all the infected tissue, and the
cores,
and then using tape to tie the hole together instead of stitches. At
that
point it sounded wonderful to me, other than the fact that it would
have
to be cut away without the benefit of pain killer. Neil came to the
rescue
on that front, and produced a new bottle of rum. The pain killer was in
hand.

We talked far into the night
while I steadily worked on the rum. When a significant portion of the
bottle
was gone Hillary decided the time was at hand to operate. I continued
to
talk with Neil ,and enjoy his rum, while Hillary started cutting the
rot
out of my leg. I can empathize with the soldiers of the Civil War. The
rum
helped but was far from a pain killer. I would have to stop talking
every
now and again when Hillary made a particularly deep cut. By
concentrating
on Neil's face, and the subject of the conversation, I made it through
the
ordeal. When it was all cut away Hillary produced a can of sulfa
powder,
and covered it all with the wonderful substance. She then bandaged it
expertly,
and it was over.

All signs of the infection quickly
vanished, replaced by healthy healing tissue. Within three days I was
back
in the sea diving for my dinner once again. It was a tremendous load
off
my shoulders to know that I was not going to die. I owed it all to
Hillary
and Neil, but especially Hillary for having the stomach to operate on
such
an ugly mess. I loved them both for what they had done for me.

Bad News

When I next returned to visit
my friends, Hillary and Neil, I made the comment that I had sold Dart,
and
would be heading up to the US in a few weeks. They were excited about
the
news, and asked who had bought her, as they had news for me too. When I
told
them Tristan had bought her it became deadly quiet in the boat. Neil
looked
at Hillary, and I knew instantly that something was very wrong.

After a few moments of confused
silence Hillary looked at me and told me that they had also sold their
boat
to Tristan Jones. They had, like me, decided to make one more trip down
through
the Grenadines before turning it over to Tristan. While they were off
doing
their final cruise Tristan had discovered my boat, about the same size,
but
vastly superior for his purposes. Dart was a multi-keeled boat. She had
three
keels, a main ballasted center keel, and two bilge keels. The
combination
of the three keels and the rudder support allowed Dart to take to the
bottom
during low tide in an upright stable position. It also reduced the
draft
of the boat to only a little over two feet. For sailing in the West
Indies,
and especially to haul it to Lake Titicaca in the Andes, Dart was a far
superior
hull design.

The question now was what was
going on with their boat sale as there was no doubt that Tristan was
taking
over Dart. The local banker was holding money that Tristan had put down
on
their boat, as well as money that he had put down on Dart. The
immediate
question to be answered was if their money was still there.

Hillary and Neil went to the
bank and when they returned I instantly knew that all was not well.
Tristan
had told the banker that Neil and Hillary had elected to cancel the
agreement
and had sailed out of Bequia. The sailing part was, of course, true.
They
were just going on their last cruise. They had also booked their air
passage
out of St. Vincent back to England, and the tickets were not
refundable.
They had made other arrangements in England as well. With their boat
missing
from the bay the banker thought that Tristan was telling the truth and
returned
his money which he then used to put down on my boat.

I immediately decided that I
would cancel my deal with Tristan in order to force him to go back to
the
original arrangement, but Hillary and Neil would have no part of it,
and
insisted that I complete my deal. I felt horrible over the situation,
and
all the joy I felt in having everything come to a smooth close was
gone.
I was filled with anger towards Tristan.

The situation was now most
unpleasant since I now shared Banjo and Dart with Tristan. We would
spend
the evenings together either on the 36 foot Banjo, or on little Dart.
We
ate dinner on Banjo every night together since it had so much room to
relax
in. Banjo was sort of a "fill in boat" that Tristan had picked up after
the
sale of Barbara, while he planned the Titicaca trip. I was never quite
clear
where he had acquired Banjo, but she was a superb all wood ketch, and
seemed
huge to me after living on Sea Dart. Conditions were going to be much
different
between us after this.

We discussed the various options
available to us, including legal action, but decided that any such
action
would be very costly, and in the laid back island society would take
longer
than the time available. Besides, Tristan would simply hoist anchor on
Banjo
and sail away to regroup elsewhere. There was nothing more that we
could
do other than harass the banker, and Hillary and Neil had already
vented
their frustrations on him. He knew he had really made a blunder.

It comes to a
Close

Things continued on in a very
uncomfortable manner for another week until Hillary and Neil had
cleared
up their problems, as much as they could, and had sailed out of Bequia
to
look for better fortune elsewhere. I never saw them again. I have a
very
warm place in my heart for both of them, I owe them so very much.

Tristan and I settled into an
uneasy truce for awhile, but eventually we started to communicate on a
more
friendly level until one day something new happened. I had agreed to
take
over the Banjo as her Captain for the new owners, a retired pharmacist
and
his new bride. They were flying down from New York in two weeks so I
had
lots of time to relax on Banjo while I waited. I should add that the
final
switching of boats had not been made yet. I was still sleeping on Dart
and,
Tristan on Banjo, when this happened.

One day the crew of a French
yacht invited me to go over body surfing on the other side of the
island.
I loved the walk and the surfing so jumped at the chance. While I was
gone
Tristan came aboard Dart and went through all of my stuff looking for
my
ships log. He was very concerned about what I had recorded in it about
the
incident with Hillary and Neil. Since no one ever locked up their boat,
but
always left the companion way wide open it was a simple matter for him
to
enter Dart. It should be noted that I was still the owned since the
boat
had not been transferred to Tristan yet.

After
searching through everything, I always had the log well hidden, he
found
and read it. He then wrote a note, and left it in the log, stating that
if
I ever published anything that was in my log about the boat deal he
would
sue me for everything I was worth! He was very concerned about his
image
to his readers since his income came from his books. That
was quite a
shock to me considering that everything in the log was a strict record
of
all events as they happened, with only occasional personal comments or
observations.

Tristan and I had another go
around over the trespass aboard Dart, and I almost cancelled the sale
at
that point, but decided that would hurt me more than him. We finally
closed
the deal and on the 1st of April 1973 Sea Dart became Tristan's. We
rafted
Dart up with Banjo and transferred our things. We stayed rafted up for
several
days while Tristan sorted through his mountain of possessions to reduce
it
to an amount that could fit on Dart.

At one point there was a big
pile of stuff in Banjo's cock pit waiting to be tossed over the side.
On
the pile was an old world atlas. I picked it up and looked through it
and
was amazed to see that every page in it that had ocean on it had dozens
of
red and blue pencil lines drawn in. They were all the various routes
Tristan
had sailed over the years. It was a testament to a man's solitary life
at
sea, and to an enormous number of miles at sea. He had sailed just
about
every place that could be sailed between the Arctic and Antarctic
oceans,
and then some. I really regret throwing the book back on the pile, as
it
was a monument to a really amazing life, no matter what Tristan and I
thought
of each other.

I relaxed aboard Banjo, letting
Tristan's crew go, and waited for the new owners to arrive from New
York.
I had two weeks to lay back and read, and do some work on Banjo to get
her
ready for the 5000 mile trip ahead of us to New York. I had set up an
agreement
to sail Banjo to New York for the new owners in exchange for food,
booze,
and a plane ticket back to Oregon when we reached our destination. I
was
in a hurry by that point so set it up for us to sail up to St. Barts to
provision
Banjo, and then to open ocean sail all the way to New York. I looked
forward
to the 50 day trip with little to do but read, navigate, and sail the
boat.
Little did I know about the hurricane that would crash us down, upside
down,
from the top of a giant wave at 2:30 am, and almost take Banjo down,
and
us with it. We were also going to have to face "pirates" off the
Dominican
Republic, and only the fact that I had a double barreled shot gun
prevented
almost certain loss of the boat and our lives. The adventure was only
beginning.
I will save those events for another narrative, however.

A
few Last Comments

I had never planned to publish
any of the information you have just read about Tristan. Now that he
has
passed from the scene, and is becoming something of a "god" to the
sailing
community, I think that the full story should be told. Still, I
probably
wouldn't have bothered to put this site together if it were not for the
increasing number of e-mails I am getting requesting first hand
information
about Tristan. I am doing this more as a defense measure, to prevent me
from
having to answer the e-mails over and over with the same basic story. I
can
now just send a return e-mail with the URL to this page, and they can
read
it easily here.

I do regret that the relationship
between Tristan and I was a tense one, but it was not of my doing. I
would
much rather it had been friendly, and that Hillary and Neil had not
been
involved at all. I was chagrined and saddened to realize, while going
through
my log to write this narrative, that I never recorded Hillary and
Neil's
last name in the log, and I have long since forgotten it. If anyone
reading
this recognizes the description of these two wonderful people, I would
be
very indebted if you could e-mail me their address. They would be about
50
years in age now, and I would assume are probably still involved with
physics
and math at a high level. They are probably still living in England,
although
not necessarily so.

This page is not meant to cast
a shadow over Tristan. He was a man, perhaps not like any other man,
but
still had the failings that all of us have. Taken as a whole, Tristan
had
a remarkable life, and one well worth remembering. He was, in some
ways,
much like Joshua Slokum, only in another day and age. It will be
interesting
to see how marine history remembers Tristan. I think that there is
really
very little that is known of Tristan, the man, as he was such a loner
that
few people ever would get a chance to know him. We
were put together
by a situation of chance, and through it I did get to know both sides
of
Tristan, the "hero" and the "villain". But what is new, nothing, we all
have
two sides to our character too.

I hope you found this page of
use to you. It may not fit your perception of Tristan, but few heroes
really
do when you get to know them. If you wish to comment or make
suggestions,
please click the e-mail link just below. Thank you for taking the time
to
read this narrative. I hope to have several other sailing narratives on
the
web sometime soon. Check back to see when I add more to this site.
Thank
you.

The End

A
Post Script:
The miracle of the Internet brought Hillary and her children
back into
communication with me in 1998. I was astounded to learn that due to the
problems
of selling their boat, and various other complications arising from
what
Tristan had engineered, Hillary and Neil never were able to return to
England.
They stayed in Bequia where Neil became a teacher in the local school.
They
raised their children on and under the sea to become natives of this
little
island paradise. Their children later did go to England for higher
education,
so the ending was a beautiful one after all. At the time of this
writing
Hillary is touring around South Africa with her adult children....the
unsinkable
Hillary, and Neil continues to work in Beguia. :-)